


No Use in Pretending, unless....

by knees_of_bees



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Boundaries, Canon Compliant, Consent, Crying, Eating Disorders, Eggs, Gay Bar, Gay Draco Malfoy, Grinding, Hook-Up, Indian Harry Potter, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Men Crying, Moving On, Muggle London, Neck Kissing, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oh also, One Night Stands, POV Draco Malfoy, Past Sexual Abuse, Pining, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Roleplay, Self-Hatred, Sensuality, Unresolved, Vulnerable Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22878520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knees_of_bees/pseuds/knees_of_bees
Summary: His lips landed on this stranger’s jaw and he imagined it was Harry’s.I’m so sorry,he thought.He placed each gentle, wet kiss like an apology, leaving a trail of repentance.Traces of stubble scratched his lips. He raked teeth down the man’s neck, heard him groan. He sucked the skin there and tasted sweat.Harry after Quidditch. Harry with stubble. Harry under him, moaning.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 114





	1. Close Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Angsty, sexy, sweet, then sexy again toward the end.

Picking at his nail polish, Draco watched the small black flecks float to the floor of the club. They blended in with the grime.

He shifted on the rickety barstool, trying to ignore his guts as they shredded themselves apart. 

Apparently food didn’t come easy when the Ministry stripped you of your fortune and no one in the Wizarding World would hire you. Not that he blamed them. He deserved every icy glare, every pang of hunger, every nightmare.

And this sickly place, with its disorienting music and sticky surfaces. He fit right in. 

He knew his cheeks were hollow. He knew his bones jutted sharply, blue veins crawling up his skinny arms. He dabbed concealer under his eyes and cut his hair along the sides, but he was no better than any of these boy-loving freaks.

His eyes dragged lazily across the crowd, laced with alcohol and grinding and laughter. It was pitiful, their starvation for attention.

He wasn’t in the mood for fucking tonight.

Just as he was looking away, a man in the corner caught his eye. Draco’s heart caught in his throat.

Leather jacket. Scruffy dark hair and warm brown skin, nearly amber under the red lights. Achingly familiar.

Squinting, he saw that he was taller, and had a slender face and dark eyes. He had a softness about him that was nothing like the war-torn ferocity of the Chosen One.

It wasn’t Harry Potter. Draco felt his chest cave in. 

Of course it wasn’t. It never was. It was just his pitiful, desperate longing for a shot at redemption. Unresolved feelings from the past decade. Every wet dream projected onto the world around him.

Just another fucking Harry Potter look-alike.

Except this one was in a gay bar in Muggle London and caught him staring. He started to walk over, a soft smile on his face. Well shit.

Draco tried to remind himself he wasn’t in the mood, but his body disagreed. _I swear on Merlin, Draco,_ he thought fiercely, _if you shag him just because he looks like Potter…_

Ten minutes later, Draco was snogging him against a wall.

The look-alike’s flat was clean and smelt like tea. Draco had half a mind to find the bedroom, but this man writhed impatiently under his touch, pressed up against the hallway wall, and Draco felt on top of the world.

He let his hands glide across the leather jacket before he helped the stranger pull it off. His fingers hit soft cotton, and he dragged them down his chest before raking them back up his torso. The stranger shuddered.

When Draco grabbed a handful of fabric at the collar and yanked him closer, the stranger gasped into his mouth and deepened the kiss. Cold fingers lifted the hem of Draco’s shirt, slipping under, roaming.

“You wanna…” said the man, panting. “My room, end of the hall.” He gestured and they fumbled in that direction.

It felt fantastic, just snogging. His body was a bundle of nerves and nothing more.

But as they stumbled into the bedroom, dark except the haze of moonlight, his mind wandered again to the war. And as the dark-haired stranger leaned against the pillows and took Draco’s hand, pulling him onto the bed, he thought again of Harry Potter.

This time, when he leaned down, it was to ask forgiveness. His lips landed on this stranger’s jaw and he imagined it was Harry’s.

 _I’m so sorry,_ he thought.

He placed each gentle, wet kiss like an apology, leaving a trail of repentance.

Traces of stubble scratched his lips. He raked teeth down the man’s neck, heard him groan. He sucked the skin there and tasted sweat.

Harry after Quidditch. Harry with stubble. Harry under him, moaning.

In a tangle of fabric, the cotton tee came off. Draco’s gaze grazed bare skin. Harry’s bare skin.

Leaning down, Draco dragged his tongue across his collarbone and pressed a leg between his legs. There was a groan, a grinding of hips. Draco’s pulse was thudding in more places than one.

The man who was not quite Harry swung his leg and then Draco was on his back. Not-quite-Harry leaned over him, breath hot. He tugged off Draco’s shirt. His fingers traced sharp ribs, but he made no comment.

Their mouths collided. Skin on skin, heat flaring between them, hands everywhere and urgent. The man bit Draco’s lip gently. Draco whimpered, cursing himself for it, but the man ground more fiercely against him and did it again.

His body felt so alive and his heart was soaring. He kissed the man harder, deeper, as if by snogging this stranger in the dark he could show Harry how much he wanted him. How much he cared.

“Fuck off,” said the stranger harshly, yanking back. Draco winced, hit by shock and cold air. His hands hovered where they had been holding the man’s waist.

The stranger’s eyes were sharp, but they softened, and he laughed awkwardly. “That was… an intense reaction, I didn’t mean to… sorry. Boundaries, I guess. I’ve got some weird ones. Had a few too many unpleasant experiences, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah…” Draco replied, still not entirely following.

“My waist,” he clarified. “Being held there. I uh, it just reminds me of some things I’d rather not think about.”

“My apologies.”

“You did nothing wrong, mate, it’s just a weird thing of mine.”

“I’ll refrain from touching you there,” said Draco. “That is, if you do want to keep…”

“Yeah,” breathed the stranger, eyes crinkling with a smile. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Draco’s neck.

Draco stared at the ceiling, thoughts racing. He was taken aback by the stranger’s casual honesty. 

Sure, there were parts of sex that made Draco want to vomit. Things that reminded him of the man he’d shagged after his trial, rough and demanding, or Fenrir Greyback in those dark months at the Manor.

He’d figured it was all part of the package.

Lust was both sickening and blissful. Fucking was both traumatic and necessary for survival.

But this man told Draco, a perfect stranger, about his — what did he call them — boundaries, as if that was normal. As if you could just say that in the middle of snogging.

Draco couldn’t comprehend that level of self-respect.

The man placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth. He sucked Draco’s bottom lip. He kissed him fully.

His hands were cradling Draco’s head, thumbs brushing the short hair behind his ears, fingers curling in the long ghostly waves on top. Draco sighed into his mouth.

He tried to return the kiss but the hands in his hair were distracting. It was tender; unfamiliar. 

He needed to focus. This was an exchange, and he needed to play his part. So he pretended again. He darted his tongue in to graze Harry’s, again to run along his teeth. But imagining Harry only made it worse because this man was being too gentle.

Not-quite-Harry snaked an arm around his shoulders. Draco found himself lying on that arm. His cheek rested on not-quite-Harry’s shoulder, and not-quite-Harry was holding him.

He had forgotten what it felt like to be held.

It felt safe, and warm. His eyes stung beneath his lids. To think of Harry holding him like this was too much.

Because to love was one thing. Loving could be desperate and lost and unrequited. It could be snogging a stranger. It could be a pastel dream, slipped between pages of nightmares.

Loving could live safely outside of reality.

But somehow, lying here in a stranger’s bed, thinking about Harry Potter, Draco got a glimpse of what it might be to be _loved_. He’d pictured himself holding Harry a thousand times, but never had he imagined Harry holding him. 

It was too much.

He opened his eyes, realizing too late that they were wet. A tear fell and wet the stranger’s cheek.

The stranger blinked and looked at him. “Ah shit. What’d I do, are you okay?”

Mortified, Draco leaned in to catch his mouth in a kiss. They could keep going, breeze past this.

But the stranger rolled away. “You okay?” he repeated.

“Fine, thank you,” replied Draco haughtily, though his throat felt thick.

The stranger looked at him hesitantly. “I can uh, call a cab for you? If you want?”

“Is there a problem?” Draco asked icily, daring him to mention the tears.

“Look, you don’t have to explain yourself.”

He didn’t. He owed this man nothing. He was miserably embarrassed, and this man had no business exploiting that.

And yet he was the one who had used him, intentionally, to snog a fantasy.

Guilt and uncertainty twisted in Draco’s gut. He was caught between wanting to shag this man like nothing had happened and disapparate on the spot.

“I was thinking of someone else,” he heard himself say. Shit. That certainly wasn’t the plan. This man was too nice and too honest, and it was making this difficult.

The stranger laughed. Draco twinged with irritation, ready to jump on the defense, but the stranger said “I don’t think anyone decides to have a one night stand without being a little fucked up.” He shifted awkwardly and continued. “Not to say— okay let me rephrase—“

“No, I am,” said Draco. It felt good to say it. “I’m fucked up.”

“I think the fucked up part is telling me you pretended I was someone else. Definitely should’ve kept that to yourself.”

Draco winced. This was not as he’d planned.

“But now that you’ve admitted that you weren’t really snogging me, how was snogging that other guy? I’ve always thought it’d be cool to be an actor. How’d I do, playing him?”

Was this rhetorical? It seemed like a strange thing to ask. But his expression was one of light teasing, and Draco figured he’d already dug himself a hole.

“It felt like… forgiveness.”

“Damn, that’s deep,” said the man, nodding in approval. “What’d you do?”

Draco laughed dryly. “Unimaginable things.”

“Oh come on, man, we’ve all done some pretty fucked up shit. What, told him he smells bad?”

The Potter Stinks badges from fourth year popped into Draco’s mind, and he actually laughed. “Worse.”

“You bought him ice cream, but it had cashews in it, and he’s allergic to cashews so his face puffed up like a pufferfish with too much rouge and you made fun of him.”

This bloke was a weirdo. “Worse.”

“Infidelity.”

“Worse.”

The man looked solemnly off into space. Then, seeming to come to a decision, he said “Nahh, I don’t think it gets worse than that.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Did I…” started Draco. “Forgive me if you gave it, but what is your name?”

“Oh I’m so glad you asked, I felt way too awkward to ask for yours. Kumara.”

“Draco.”

“Nuh uh,” Kumara laughed. “Nobody actually names their kid Draco.”

Draco prickled.

“Don’t get me wrong,” hurried Kumara, “it’s a dope name, but you came up with it, right? Or just really eccentric parents…?”

“It’s not all that strange where I come from,” he said coolly.

“Well shit. I just figured you were from around here. Kids mispronounced my name all through school, still happens, so I get it, it sucks. Didn’t mean to be an arse.”

Draco’s pride faltered at the genuine apology. 

“This one kid, class clown type,” rambled Kumara, “he was always saying rude shit. Prejudice gets laughs, you know? I finally told him if he had a bone to pick with me he could meet me behind the school. The next morning, he was there, and he apologized. We became friends, don’t ask me how. He was the first boy I ever kissed.”

Draco was having serious trouble following this story.

“We finally broke up over a Gameboy. I wonder what he’s up to now. I kinda miss him.”

He looked at Draco with a mischievous smile. “Maybe we should go at it again, and I’ll pretend you’re him.”

He kept talking as Draco gaped.

“Heartbreak is shit,” he said. “I’ve been through it a couple times. The worst part is trying to convince yourself you’re over it, even when every little thing reminds you of them. It could be a purple sock, and you’re all ‘So-and-so liked the color blue, and that’s close to purple.’ I don’t know. It sucks.”

Draco’s mind wandered over the last week. A woman at the grocery store with round glasses, a white cat that reminded him of Potter’s white owl… Pitiful.

“I never told him,” he said so quietly he barely heard himself.

Kumara looked over at him again. “What? That you loved him?”

“Anything.”

“Maybe,” shrugged Kumara, “it’s not too late.”

Draco scoffed lightly.

“What, is he married?”

“Not yet,” said Draco.

“Then what’s holding you back?”

His stomach plummeted.

His own cowardice held him back. The same cowardice that kept him sniveling on the wrong side of the war. There were so many times he could have been brave enough. But he wasn’t. His schoolmates died and it was his fault. Potter would never see him as anything more than wicked and weak, and he was right.

“I can’t,” he said simply, but it came out strained.

They were quiet for awhile.

“It’s— well, it sounds cheesy as shit,” began Kumara, “but it really is just time. Getting over someone takes time. You’ll be okay.”

Okay. The word rolled tentatively across Draco’s skin. He wished it would soak in.

A screech sounded from outside.

Then another.

“Fuck you, birds,” groaned Kumara, throwing a pillow at the window. “It’s about to start getting light out. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“Early,” Draco corrected.

“I’ll make you breakfast.”

“I don’t feel the need to intrude—“

“This whole night has been full of weird shit, making you eggs won’t even make the top five. You can eat eggs?”

“Well, yes—“

“Good, I need to use them before they go bad.” The bed creaked as he slid off.

Nausea seized Draco at the mere thought of food. He preferred to avoid it. But when he crept into the dark kitchen to decline, Kumara already had a spatula pointed at him and a question on his lips.

“Tell me about him.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “I thought I was supposed to be getting over this.”

“Ignoring your feelings never made ‘em go away faster.” He pivoted toward the stove, silhouette soft in the dark blue of early morning. “Tell me about him.”

“I was a complete and total arse.”

“No no no, this isn’t the Draco Pity Party. I’m sure you were godawful — worse than infidelity, remember? — but I’m asking about him. What, I dunno, made you smile?”

 _Smile_. That stirred something in Draco. Beneath the sick tangle of darkness he’d built up hid a lovestruck boy. He grasped for that feeling.

“He was sassy as hell.”

Kumara‘s laughter blended with the sizzling eggs.

“Nobody shut up about his eyes, which was obnoxious, because it made me feel less original when I admired them. They were green, and sharp, and — He was funny. And a complete idiot. The kid almost got himself killed at least once a year. No— No, don’t laugh, I’m dead serious.” Draco huffed out a laugh himself, realizing the concept of regular near-death experiences sounded ludicrous, and he hadn’t even mentioned giant snakes or magic rocks. Potter truly was an idiot.

“It was his hero complex, really. He was so perfect and I… I knew I could never be his hero so I tried for arch-nemesis instead. Anything to get that scrappy kid to look my way. And bloody hell, when he did, I…” Draco stopped himself, afraid of what he might say.

“Damn. He really had no idea?”

“Oblivious beyond belief.”

“Because it sounds to me like you were anything but subtle. And what, he just thought ‘Oh yes, Draco stares into my eyes and uses any excuse to be close to me and that is hetero behavior if I’ve ever seen it!”

Draco snorted. “He didn’t call me Draco. It was always Malfoy, and full of contempt.”

“Well, _Malfoy_ ,” Kumara said, stepping closer, “I think things could have gone down a much more interesting path.” He smiled playfully.

Kumara’s fingers brushed Draco’s. Then they brushed Draco’s hip.

“What are you doing,” breathed Draco.

“If you want to play pretend…” 

“Isn’t that a little—“

“Fucked up? Absolutely. We’ve established that. But you seem sad, and I’ve decided I don’t mind being a stand-in if it means kissing a pretty boy. What do you say?”

Draco winced at the condescension. He was sick of sex, of the emptiness.

But in the dark, this man’s features were a mere suggestion, shadows and scruffy black hair. Their bodies were close and Draco’s was cold.

 _This won’t bring lasting relief._ He reached up to graze the stranger’s ear. _It won’t be fulfilling._ He grabbed a handful of dark hair.

Not-quite-Harry raised his eyebrows. “Can’t stay away, can you, Malfoy?” He shoved Draco lightly, causing him to stumble back. “You may as well snog me,” he taunted, “the way you follow me around. It’s pathetic,” he hissed.

Harry leaned close, breath hot on Draco’s neck. “Bet you wish you could, huh, Malfoy?”

Draco whimpered.

“I see the way you look at me.” He whispered it like it was a secret for just the two of them. “And I can’t say I haven’t thought about it too. I could give you what you want. If you ask for it,” Harry said, a low growl grating the edges of his voice and making Draco shiver.

Their lips met for one fleeting moment before Harry pulled back.

“Ask,” he purred.

“I want you,” Draco said weakly. 

Something snapped inside him when he heard himself voice it.

“What was that?”

“I want you I want you I want you, Harry, Harry Potter, Harry I want you.” His voice broke. He felt small and desperate and freer than he had in a long time.

Harry’s kiss was hungry. Draco wished he would devour him and leave nothing behind.

His thighs hit a table and Harry lifted him onto it. Draco spread his legs and pulled Harry close.

This was far more physical than any dreamed-up fantasy; This was hot and wet and hard. Draco tried to drink it in through every pore so he would never forget the closest he ever got.

Harry‘s mouth was gone. There was a soft thud. He was on his knees, hands on Draco’s thighs, and he asked “Do you want me here?”

“Yes,” Draco said hoarsely, vision blurring.

A hand cupped his jeans, palming him, and he pressed into it. The pressure was both over-stimulating and not near enough. He fumbled with the buckle on his belt.

Button undone, zipper slid down.

Smoke alarm screams filled the flat.

“Shit,” yelled Harry— Kumara— darting toward the stove. “The eggs!”

Smoke tickled Draco’s throat and he choked on it. Sunlight trickled through the window, landing on his half-undressed crotch, and his stomach churned with disgust.

“I have to go,” he mumbled. Kumara didn’t hear him, waving a towel at a smoke detector frantically.

Draco zipped his jeans, eyes darting around the room for anything he might have brought, and made for the door.

He glanced at Kumara one last time, tall and slim and soft, and they locked eyes. Expressions flitted across the stranger’s face and his mouth moved to form words.

Draco let the smoke swallow them.


	2. Mist

## 1 year later...

“You want me to shadow _Malfoy?_ You can’t be serious.”

Robards, head of the Auror department and master of the combover, shrugged. “Protocol, Potter. Your friend with the bushy hair―”

“Hermione Granger.”

“―she helps write policy, doesn’t she? They’ve decided that once a year, starting right about _now_ , each Auror will be assigned a former Death Eater. You’ll follow them around for a week, make sure they aren’t up to any funny business―”

“But _Malfoy_.”

“Potter, don’t make this difficult. You know him better than any of your coworkers. If he’s up to no good, I trust you to nip it in the bud.”

Harry laughed, the sound bright with disbelief, and bit his tongue before he said anything stupid to his boss.

Hermione was staying at Grimmauld Place while she saved up for a flat, and he got glimpses into the world of magical law through notes scribbled on coffee-stained napkins, parchment scattered across the long oak table, and late night ramblings by the fire, so sure, he’d had a heads up. But the last person he imagined he’d be ordered to spy on was his school rival, war criminal, and overall scumbag Draco Malfoy.

And yet here he was, rifling through said scumbag’s file in a train compartment that smelt like metal and dead mice.

Nothing jumped out at Harry on the first page. Malfoy skirted Azkaban (thanks to Harry’s testimony), lost his fortune (which brought Harry far more joy than it ought to), rented a flat in Muggle London (presumably because he was too cowardly to show his face in wix society), and couldn’t get a job (who wants to hire a prissy little bitch, anyway?).

What got Harry was page two. Sometime in the last year, the pale-eyed punk had moved to Bath, England, and if that wasn’t quaint enough, he worked at a _coffee shop._

Harry snorted, actually snorted, at the image of barista Malfoy. ‘Hi, what can I get you? We have cappuccinos, biscuits, and a free side of murder and mayhem brought to you by our sponsor, the Dark Lord himself! Lovely weather, isn’t it?’ He shoved the parchment into his brown bag and huffed at the window. It fogged, blurring the image of passing trees.

Dwindling daylight danced on the leaves as they sped by, reds and yellows of early Fall decorated with the gold of evening until dusk swallowed the colors whole. It was dark when Harry found his hotel, bright as he stood in the flickering lights of the lobby, and dusty when he finally collapsed on the bed.

. ･ ✧ . ･ﾟ☆ . ･ﾟ✧ ･ﾟ

Mother always said rain washed away your sins. It was likely a desperate attempt to cope with her own plethora of misdeeds, but it stuck with Draco nonetheless, and though he knew he’d racked up enough sins to go to Hell twice, there was still something refreshing about the misty blue morning. He shut the door behind him, breathed out the stale air of his flat, and breathed in the moisture.

Soggy amber leaves squelched beneath his black loafers. It felt good to be wearing real shoes again; he’d ditched the dirty lace ups that got him through the first few months after the war, that miserable chase for employment, for purpose, for someone to love him because he couldn’t love himself. Now that he was back on his feet, just thinking about it made him cringe. He was sick of the pitiful angst that had clung to him since sixth year, sick of feeling sorry for himself. Bit by bit, Draco was rebuilding his pride, and this time it wasn’t at the expense of his peers but rather fueled by the cleanliness of his flat, the sharpness of his style, and the smiles of customers satisfied with a job well done.

“Dray!”

Kumara was holding the door of the shop open wide and grinning. Draco shook his head. “Let all the rain in, would you?”

“If you insist.”

“You know I have to work,” said Draco, slipping inside and throwing a look over his shoulder at Kumara. “You better not distract me with your chatter.” 

“We all have stuff to do,” came the reply. “I, for one, have coffee to order.”

Draco rolled his eyes and grabbed an apron off the hook.

. ･ ✧ . ･ﾟ☆ . ･ﾟ✧ ･ﾟ

Rain. Of course there was rain. Not even the exciting, thunder-ridden, torrential kind, but the kind that made Harry blink behind lightly misted glasses. Just enough to be a nuisance. The coffee shop was a lovely little thing from the outside, no signs reading ‘mudbloods beware’ or ‘warning: this building contains an irritating prick.’ Harry wiped his glasses on his jeans, put them back on, realized they were only blurrier, and stepped inside.

There he was. All soft blond hair and pressed black shirt, fingers flitting across switches, buttons, plastic straws.

Harry’s gut twisted with hatred.

This wasn’t the broken boy in sixth year, bleeding and crying and desperate. It wasn’t the boy with dark circles and shaking hands caught on the wrong side of war, or the boy whose head hung with shame during the trial. This young man had proud shoulders and smiled at customers, and Harry hated him for it. He was a sad, despicable thing, and for him to pretend otherwise rubbed Harry the wrong way.

He watched as Malfoy took orders and swept counters and added extra whip cream, entirely oblivious to Harry’s shadowed form in the back of the line. The customers counted down until finally, he stood at the register.

“Cappuccino,” he said shortly. “Tall.”

. ･ ✧ . ･ﾟ☆ . ･ﾟ✧ ･ﾟ

The world spun to a halt.

Harry Potter, the man he’d spent the last year forgetting about, was right there. Draco’s chest was tight, the cinnamon shaker in his hand tipping, letting out a puff of cinnamon that made him want to sneeze but he didn’t dare move, not when the personification of both his desires and his self-hatred was standing in front of him and— hold up— ordering a _cappuccino?_

So this was how they were going to play it. Fine.

Harry slapped a wad of Muggle money on the counter and Draco took it, counting out the change by feel without breaking eye contact. He mirrored Harry’s steel gaze if only to avoid revealing anything else. They’d pretend they didn’t know each other. It was a freak coincidence and since neither of them wanted to interact, they’d keep it brief and businesslike. No need to dwell on their mutual hatred, or lie to themselves by feigning forgiveness, and certainly no need for Draco to get his hopes up only to have them squandered.

Harry’s fingers brushed his when he reached for the hot cup and Merlin, the shudder it sent through Draco was downright embarrassing. No one seemed to notice he was barely holding it together. No one except Kumara, who raised his eyebrows from the corner of the room so obviously that Draco had to mouth ‘quit it.’ He’d smooth over this accidental interaction and move past it, just as he’d moved past his adolescent feelings for the man.

So why did Harry linger in the shop? Why did he keep glancing at Draco over his cup and, more importantly, why did Draco care?

Heat coursed through his body every time their eyes met. He practically shoved his nose in a bag of coffee beans to snap out of it, and when that didn’t work, he shoved his whole arm into the ice tray while making iced tea. He’d dreamed this moment a thousand times, but this wasn’t romantic, it was awkward and miserable.

Why wouldn’t Harry leave? Didn’t he have a girlfriend to get back to? A career, a life?

An hour passed, and still, he sat there. Draco lifted his apron to dab sweat away. One hour turned to two, then three, until he only had ten minutes left of his shift. There was a lull in customers and he dipped into the back room to compose himself. He’d approach Harry — he’d be a coward if he didn’t — but he would do so with dignity. Calm, collected, cool. His delivery would make diplomats around the world jealous.

. ･ ✧ . ･ﾟ☆ . ･ﾟ✧ ･ﾟ

“What the actual Hell are you doing here?” fumed Malfoy.

Harry crushed the cup in his hand, tossed it in the recycle, and stood. The café was empty save for some scruffy black haired man in the corner and a couple of girls running lines for what must be a school play. The hum of machines behind the counter blended with the soft tapping of rain outside, and leaves blew past the windows.

“Good to see you too,” he replied coolly.

“Coming in here was one thing, merely an unfortunate coincidence, but _staying_?” His forehead was dotted with beads of sweat, hair swept softly back, eyes icy. “I have a life,” he breathed, filling the air between them with the scent of coffee beans, “and I don’t need you interfering.”

Harry let his eyes trail up and down Malfoy judgmentally, lingering on his lean torso and the veins that crawled up his arm with ferocity. It must take a lot of nerve for him to act as if he deserved any semblance of normalcy, let alone happiness.

“Glad to see we’ve reached a point of civility,” Harry said sarcastically, crossing his arms and raising a brow.

 _”Civility?”_ Malfoy spat. “You, sitting here, antagonizing me with your stare and your hair and that fitted sweatshirt, that’s hardly civility, Potter.” Harry hardly had time to process before Malfoy continued. “I’ve spent this whole time trying to move on, and you just want to dredge it back up, don’t you?”

It took everything in him not to snap. Not to whip out his wand or better yet, to throw a punch right then and there. Every impulsive bone in his body was shuddering with rage, unchecked aggression roiling inside him, angry adrenaline that he’d had to swallow because he was an adult now and the war was over. It would be all too easy to let it loose.

But the girls had lowered their scripts and were muttering to each other, eyes averted as if they weren’t listening in to every word. The man in the corner looked ready to intervene. And Malfoy was damn near throwing a fit, giving Harry the upper hand. If he shut down his instincts and continued to stand there cool and unaffected, Malfoy would look like a fool.

“It’s precious that you think you have any right to talk to me like that,” Harry said, voice tight. “No, really, it is.” Heat came in waves off Malfoy and it took an awful lot of self control not to feed off that violent energy. “Endearing, even,” he added, keeping his gaze steady. The rain outside seemed to pick up. The girls were outright staring now, nervous excitement gleaming in their eyes, and at the edge of his vision, Harry saw Malfoy’s fingers twitch. He opened his mouth to speak, Malfoy took a step forward, the air between them was dangerously charged, and then — the man was there.

The man who’d been lingering in the corner now stood at Malfoy’s side saying “Hey, Dray, it’s chill, calm down,” and touching his arm. The violent streak in Harry crash landed, replaced with pure disdain for Malfoy — ‘Dray’ — and his new life in which he relaxed around this stranger and stepped back from Harry. As an Auror, Harry didn’t get the luxury of normalcy. Every day was another battle as if the war hadn’t ended but merely tapered out to a dull hum of violence and petty crime that Harry could never escape, and here Malfoy was, making friends and letting the past conveniently slip from his mind.

“I’m Kumara,” said the stranger, holding out a hand and offering half a smile.

“Harry Potter,” he said reluctantly, partaking in the handshake and eyeing the way Kumara’s other hand rested on Malfoy’s back. 

Recognition flashed across Kumara’s face and he shot Malfoy a self-satisfied look. He must be a wizard, then, as he clearly recognized the name.

“Let’s have dinner together,” Kumara said, as if that was the next logical step in the conversation. Malfoy shot him a dirty look and Harry’s eyebrows shot up.

“Excuse me?” 

“You, me, Dray,” he continued with nonchalance. “You two clearly know each other, and I’d love to get better acquainted with you.”

If they were at each other’s throats now, how was dinner a decent plan? What, they would chit chat about what they’d been up to since the mass-murder of muggles that Malfoy was complacent to sit by and watch? But Harry had a job to do, and walking away now would hardly be sufficient. If this annoyingly cheerful stranger wanted to make his work easier, by all means, he could go right ahead.

“Dinner,” Harry agreed. The horror on Malfoy’s face was worth it.


	3. Mango Lassis

“So, Harry,” Kumara said, tossing mango slices into the blender, “what brings you around these parts?”

Harry shifted on his feet, trying to improvise an answer. The kitchen was spotless, as he’d imagine Malfoy’s place would be, but what he hadn’t expected were the vines that crawled up the walls and around the cupboards, leaves fanning across white surfaces. “I’ve never been to Bath, and I wanted to see the, er, baths—“

Kumara turned the blender on. The sound clanged in Harry’s head. “What was that?” Kumara asked.

“London gets busy, you know, overstimulating, and my job has me on my feet twenty four sev—“

The blender whirred again. “Didn’t catch that. Can you repeat yourself?”

Kumara didn’t seem to realize the irony of the situation, focused as he was on his mango lassis, but it felt reminiscent of the time Harry visited Hermione’s parents at work and watched them ask their patients questions only to stick metal things in their mouths. “I haven’t taken a vacation in—“ he began, only for the blender to start up again.

“In…?” Kumara asked.

“Nevermind,” said Harry.

Malfoy was hovering at the edge of his own kitchen, fingers drumming nervously on the counter, giving Kumara a look that Harry couldn’t quite read and Kumara didn’t seem bothered by. 

“Well!” said Kumara, pouring the mixture into glasses. “Hate to dip, but I have to walk my neighbor’s cat.”

Harry raised his eyebrows skeptically, catching the way Malfoy ran a tense hand through his hair.

“Rice is on the table, meat’s on the stove, it’s almost done,” he said, shoving Malfoy lightly on the arm. “Enjoy dinner. Will I see you tomorrow, Harry?”

He certainly hoped he wouldn’t have to stick around that long. “Maybe,” he said, smiling tightly.

“Great. Seeya, Dray.” He winked, Malfoy glared, and then it was just the two of them standing in the kitchen.

Malfoy grabbed thin glass plates from the cupboard and passed one to Harry. “Feel free to serve yourself.”

At the table, Harry watched contentedly as Malfoy fiddled with his fork, clearly uncomfortable. It clattered to the table.

“Look,” he said. “You’re not going to forgive me, and you shouldn’t. But while you’re in my home for some godforsaken reason, let’s get some things out in the open.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“I’m sorry for insulting Ron Weasley. And all of them, for that matter. They’re, each of them, they’re better people than my family combined, and I think I was…” Malfoy looked like he was in physical pain, “jealous, in a way.”

“Yeah, no, not forgiving you for that.”

“Great. Figured. Anyway, Granger. I was a massive prick toward her even though she’s twice as intelligent—“

“More like a dozen times.”

“—so I’m sorry for that. And… And when she was… When you were at the manor, and my aunt… my aunt was _torturing_ her, and I didn’t do anything.”

“Mhm. Forgiveness not granted.”

“Making fun of you for having parents, that was unforgivable—“

“Correct.”

“Potter!”

“Yes?”

“Would you let me finish?”

“Finish being a whiny, spoiled, self-pitying pain in the arse? I wasn’t aware you’d ever finished.”

Malfoy leaned forward onto the table, pointing a finger at Harry. “Now hold up. I’m clearly the bad guy here, but don’t play innocent.”

“Excuse me?”

“You and your army of do-gooders weren’t exactly _sweet_ toward—“

“And I’m suppose to feel bad about that?”

“I mean, don’t get on your hands and knees, but a little human decency wouldn’t kill you, Potter.”

Harry shrugged, relaxing further into his chair. “Apparently nothing can. It’s been tried and tested.”

“I’m just saying, how are Slytherins suppose to be good people if you never give them a chance?”

“I feel like I gave them lots of chances.”

“And I feel like you would’ve loved it if that rogue bludger were after me,” Malfoy snapped. 

“Not gonna lie, that would have been pretty snazzy.”

Malfoy shook his head in disbelief, collapsing back into his chair. “You know, honestly,” he said after a moment, “it would have been the least I could do.”

Harry laughed, which actually got half a smile out of Malfoy. “Taking one for the team.”

“Literally everything at that school was trying to kill you, I could have taken some of that off your back.”

“Yes!” he agreed. “And then you could have been the one with a frickin’ noodle arm. God, that was the worst.”

Draco grabbed his fork and gestured at Harry. “You, okay, even you have to admit that was pretty hilarious.”

“Lockhart was such a mess.”

“Flopping around on the pitch like some sad worm.”

“Yeah, no, it was pretty funny. I was noodle man.”

“Pasta prince.”

“Spaghetti boy.”

Malfoy looked almost relaxed when he laughed, hard edges softening, eyes twinkling. 

“This is weird,” said Harry.

“Tell me about it.”

They simmered down into silence, scooping rice onto their plates and eating. Most of the quiet moments Harry experienced these days were brief breaths of the lonely air in his flat between shifts. This, though, this was comfortable. By some ludicrous jumble of circumstances, this felt like camaraderie. 

It shouldn’t. Malfoy was an enemy, a target, a suspect, and Harry was on an unpleasant mission. 

“Seen much of your old friends lately?” he asked. If they were planning some terrorist attack, they’d have to unify again first.

He shook his head, glancing down at the hand that rested on the table, fiddling with a napkin. 

“Talked to Millie half a year ago. Millicent. Pans and Blaise, though? I don’t know. I think we’re all trying to forget about it. Distance ourselves.”

Harry studied him with the scrutiny of sixth year, searching for any sign that he was lying. “You’ve just been embracing the muggle lifestyle, then? I can’t imagine Bath is a major wizard hub.”

“No, it’s not. Yeah. I only use magic to turn the lights off these days. To lazy to get out of bed. I even clean by hand. Cathartic, almost?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, not sure how to respond to the casual honesty. “Right. Well.” He considered staying. Considered asking what was for dessert. “I best be off, then,” he said.

Malfoy’s head snapped up. “Yes, of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ta da! A healthy dose of self-loathing and repression, with longing sprinkled in to spice things up. Then an unexpected meeting. What’s next? Who knows! Me, I know, but I might take a minute to actually write it because I want to start up an original web comic and spanish is KILLING me. Comments mean the world and a half. Love u.


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